Crack Drabbles of the Third Kind
by Kyron
Summary: There are several stories on my computer that were either written for, well, nothing or written because I was absurdly bored. These stories shall find themselves here.
1. Teletran Gets a Spanking

Fan Fiction

"That…is totally horrid." Spike muttered, clicking the back button on the internet browser.

Jazz wandered over after several minutes of watching him click at the mouse in a frustrated manner.

"What the glitch are you up to?"

"Research. Gotta write a paper for school." he said, not even pausing to look up from the screen as he clicked out of yet another page.

"What's the topic?" he asked, leaning down to get a watch the screen.

" 'The appeal of modern writing and fiction.' Specifically, writings in relation to television shows. It's usually called 'fan fiction'." he answered, typing in a search query to Google.

"You mean there are people out there who write about something that comes from the television?"

"Yup. And music. And cartoons. And even books. It's crazy."

"Uh huh." he replied. "So what's 'horrid' about it?"

Spike snorted in response. "Most of the writing. I can't use any of the pages I've found so far because it's like children do most of the writing."

The computer flashed screens across at a rate that Spike couldn't even view.

"Hey!"

"I'm searchin', hold on…" Jazz said, cuing more screens to pop up. "Hey, look! They even write about porn!"

"Jazz!" Spike squeaked, punching CTRL+ALT+DEL to no effect.

The screen stopped on a story that flashed on the screen long enough for Spike to read a few lines before Teletran started smoking and sparks flew.

"Great. Just great." he said, pushing his chair back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Whoops?" Jazz asked, stepping back from the computer as well.

"What happened anyway?" Spike asked, clearly frustrated.

Jazz adjusted the screen controls to clear up the lingering image on the screen. The title alone would be enough to send Red Alert into seizures.

"**TELETRAN GETS A SPANKING"**


	2. Ops Trio: Rainy Day Recon

**Ops Trio: Rainy Day Recon**

The sickly glow of the street lights meager illumination wasn't enough to pierce the shadows that seemed to constantly linger. Even during the daylight the city seemed so sullen and dark that it was little wonder why it was considered to be vagrant and uncivilized. It rained a lot, a consistent, drizzling, annoying rain that turned the poorly maintained roads into a slippery mess. Occasionally it would sleet, turning said slippery mess into an ice slicked demolition derby without the consent forms.

Recon and surveillance is a game of cat and mouse on the best of days, in the most ideal of situations. But lately, it's seemed more like some twisted version of water torture. There's this annoying lamp post that seems very well suited to that task as it tends to drop water at intermittent times, most of said droplets seem to land in the exact same spot. It's distracting, annoying, irritating and flat out aggravating. All at the same time.

It's cold out tonight, too. After sitting in this mess for more than three solar cycles, the chill has settled in at a frame numbing temperature. There's nothing for it, however. Orders are orders and information is information. The problem is, there's been nothing going on out of the ordinary. Three solar cycles and there's no data to collect. Frustrating.

When the call came in for Mirage to head back, he found himself even more aggravated than before. Knowing his commander, a simple 'Mirage, report back to base' was simply to easy. No, instead, he'd been greeted with NSYNC and "Bye Bye Bye" blaring over his internal comm-system. With a long-suffering sigh, Mirage quickly stowed what little gear he'd brought and transformed, headed towards their make-shift camp.

There were many things one should expect when one works with the likes of Jazz and Bumblebee as a full-time gig. One of those things was the often erratic and seemingly random things you could find upon returning from a mission. Today's choice, it seemed, was a rather crude Neolithic-esque artwork depicting Mirage being eaten by a deranged Sunstreaker. All done in sidewalk chalk. And garbage bags. And zip ties.

Yes, definitely Jazz's work.

Grumbling, the still dripping wet spy trudged past the impromptu artwork and, after triple checking the security grid, made a bee-line for the dispenser they'd brought with them.

Gently, he wrapped his hand around a freshly-prepared cube, hoping to rest for a moment before having to deal with anyone else. If he was incredibly lucky.

"Hey! Figured you'd be getting back around now." Jazz said, sauntering into the room and plopping down in the vacant seat next to Mirage. "

Luck, he found, just wasn't on his side.

"I think that a lamp shade, with frill mind you, would suit your style perfectly, Jazz." Mirage said, grumpily, as he sipped his cube. "Now bugger off and go find one in hot pink."

"Wow. Harsh, 'Raj, real harsh. You'll hurt my feelin's." Jazz replied, giving the most hurt pout he could muster.

"I'll worry about 'hurt feelings' when I'm not dank, cold, hungry and annoyed at the fact that the intelligence we were given, you remember, the one saying this place needing more intelligence gathered," he said, waving his free hand for emphasis, "was -wrong-."

Jazz shrugged, downing the remainder of his cube.

"That's military intelligence for ya, Mirage."

"Yes, it appears to be painfully limited." Mirage said, dryly.

"Oh c'mon, it wasn't -that- bad." Jazz replied.

"Oh. I do beg to differ."

"We did learn something' about the place."

"Yes. That it was empty." Mirage replied, testily. "And that there are 1,453 chipped bricks in the south wall, fourteen pigeons living on the second floor, and a family of squirrels in the attic. The amount of information is simply -staggering-."

Jazz snickered, earning himself a glare from Mirage as the blue mech downed the rest of his energon.

"All for the war effort, right?"

"Indeed. The amount of bird feces alone should be enough to power the Decepticon's latest 'weapon of the week'." the spy added, giving the impression of serious contemplation. "We'd best not be caught unawares."

"Ha! Bird shit cannon? Ya think the 'Cons got it in'em?" Jazz asked, laughing and offering Mirage a second cube.

"It's entirely possible. The feats of engineering alone could potentially put Wheeljack to shame." he replied, accepting the offered sustenance with a curt nod. "And we all know that they are full of something thus it might as well be avian fecal matter."

The white mech snorted in reply and the pair lapsed into a companionable silence.

"Where's Bumblebee?" Mirage inquired after several minutes had passed.

"He's meetin' us back at the Ark in the morning. Figured you'd wanna get a bit of recharge before heading back."

"So long as I can get -dry-, I couldn't really care less about recharge."

"Heh. Well, good thing the heat is on in the third bunk and there's spare thermal sheets to go with." Jazz said, standing and headed towards the entrance. "Go get some rest, Mirage. I got watch tonight and we'll head back when it ain't rainin' no more."

Mirage gaped as his commander headed outside. "Thank you." he said, quietly.


	3. Why Transformers Should Not Watch Soaps

-1**Why Transformers Should Not Watch Daytime Soaps…According to Miles**

It should have been a warning. The planets had aligned or a lunar eclipse or maybe Prime in a tutu.

No. I wish it were only that subtle.

The warning…was the calm.

It was that kind of calm that comes before a storm. Eye of the hurricane calm. There I was, minding my own business, trying to ignore the rather robust robot (heh, sounds funny, don't it?) sitting nearby tinkering with one of two very large and dangerous and penis-envy inducing cannons. And then there was Ratchet, optics bright with…something. I don't know what it was but it was enough to strike fear into the hearts of all Decepticons that ever existed. Kinda looked like a woman in perpetual PMS. I know Mikaela, remember? You have no idea…

Anyway, I remember that Ironhide turned from said penis-envy inducing cannons (I'm jealous to this day) only to get the biggest, baddest, most badass backhand slap I have ever seen followed by Ratchet's voice bellowing.

"You no good, sorry excuse of a man! How dare you! I am not some…some toy to be owned!" and then proceeded by a rather dramatic, Emmy-winning turn and crossing of arms.

And Ironhide just -looked-. Not stared. Just kinda gazed with this enduring yet bored expression.

"Feel better?"

"Yes, quite." Ratchet replied, walking away as if nothing happened.

"What was that about anyway?"

"Saw it on General Hospital. Thought I'd try it out."

"Hmm." Ironhide grunted, returning to his tinkering.

I think that, at that very same moment, my brain broke with a resounding crash and an accompany music set that consisted of the theme from the Twilight Zone.

General Hospital…pfft…

…All My Children is sooo much better.


	4. How To Tell The President

-1How to Tell the President 101

"You know, when I took this job, I didn't think there'd be hidden meetings…well, not within the first week anyway."

John Keller gave a curt nod to his latest 'charge', a man by the name of Michael Rosenbaum, the latest President-elect for the United States. Rosenbaum was a no-nonsense man with one hell of an insight on foreign policy, as he'd be soon to discover, he had no idea just -how- foreign relations would truly be. Rosenbaum and Keller had been sent by the current President on what appeared to be a National Guard helicopter that was inbound for the west coast. All President-elect Rosenbaum had been told was that there was a debriefing he must attend and there was no physical way it could be conducted in the White House.

"I do apologize for the veil, Sir, but there's just no other way to do this right now." Keller said, speaking into the headset of the aircraft.

"No need to apologize, John. I trust you on this."

"Thank you, sir."

"And who, might I ask, is our pilot today?"

Keller paused a moment, fighting a cringe. "Ah, sir this is…"

"Evan, sir. Pleasure to meet you." the pilot answered, casting a glance over his shoulder as he spoke.

"Evan. Right then. Thanks for taking us out today."

"My pleasure, sir."

"About how long do we have left in the air?" Rosenbaum asked, shifting in his seat a little after having remained still for several hours now.

"You don't get airsick, do you sir?" Evan asked, smiling.

"No, no. I just like my solid ground."

_Boy, are you gunna need it… _Keller thought, giving the pilot a wry glance.

"I'll be touching down in about 10 mike."

Rosenbaum nodded and turned his gaze out the window of the chopper, seemingly content to watch the scenery.

"Hey…isn't that the Hoover Dam?" he asked, turning back towards Keller.

"Yes sir. The meeting will be held inside."

Rosenbaum raised an eyebrow at the response but shrugged it off.

Within minutes, Evan had the orange chopper on the deck and the two passengers were swept into a waiting black pickup truck. Once both were settled, Rosenbaum looked over at Keller.

"So, do I get a clue now?"

"Sir?"

"A clue. Do I get one?"

"It's in regards to Project Refugee, sir." Keller said, watching as the truck silently made it's way down various corridors deeper within the dam's structure.

"Really? Doesn't that have something to do with border relations in regards to airspace?"

"Something like that. Sir, all I can tell you now is that everything will be cleared up very shortly. And I'll apologize beforehand."

"You do that a lot, you know."

"You'll see why."

The truck drove silently, save for the grumble of the engine, as it made its way into the infrastructure of the dam. It stopped before a pair of sealed doors and idled.

"What's going on, John?" Rosenbaum asked, giving the doors a weary glance.

"Sir, I've got to tell you, that what you are about to see beyond these doors will probably shock the daylights out of you. But I assure you, you've been under the best protection available since the start of the trip and that you have nothing to fear once we cross this threshold. But I need you to trust me…and please try to not freak out too badly."

Rosenbaum blinked owlishly at Keller before looking back at the doors visible through the windshield of their escort's truck.

"Okay, John. I trust you."

Keller nodded and gave the truck's dash a pat.

"Let's go on, then." he said, signaling the quiet driver onward.

The doors before the truck opened with a shuddering groan, slowly parting and revealing an opening far larger than what the truck should require. As soon as the doors were clear, the vehicle moved on.

"Sir, welcome to the Hoover Facility and the core of Project Refugee."

Keller watched impassively as the driver of the truck vanished as soon as the vehicle was still and the passenger doors had been opened.

"Show off…" he grumbled, exiting the vehicle.

Rosenbaum didn't move. He looked, for all intents and purposes (not to mention the numerous times Keller had seen this particular expression) like a fish out of water as he gaped at where the driver had once been. Moments later, his gaze diverted out the windshield and his mouth snapped shut. Keller had seen them all as soon as they stopped but the sight of at least a dozen robots, some as tall as a few stories, walking around and conducting their business was awe inspiring as it came.

"Sir?" Keller inquired, leaning back into the black vehicle when said vehicle's engine growled.

"Yeah?" Rosenbaum said, breathless.

"Could you exit the vehicle, sir? He'd like to uh…well, move."

The man blinked at the SecDef before finally sliding out of the rear seat. As soon as he was clear, the door closed and the truck moved away, sans a driver, of course.

"Please tell me I'm not dreaming this…" he asked, his initial shock turning to fascination at the sight before him.

"No, sir. You're not. There'll be a full explanation forthcoming very soon. For now, let's get out of the way and see about maybe finding you a chair." Keller explained, guiding the President-elect to a human-sized bar type area.

The truck transformed and made his way to an unoccupied area and watched his two current charges. The President-elect's awe continued up until the point that a bigger being, predominantly orange and white, sporting rotor blades on its back, entered the area through the hanger lift.

"John?"

"Yes, sir?"

"That's our helicopter."

"Yes, sir."

"It's not a helicopter anymore."

"No, sir."

"Right. I'll take that chair, now."

Rosenbaum remained seated, back to the bar, watching all the current activity that was going on.

"Wow." he breathed. "Just…wow. I take it these guys aren't…native?"

"No, sir, they aren't. You'll be meeting their leader later on." Keller explained. "Sir, I'm sorry for the shock but we've discovered that no amount of reports or briefings can ever really prepare anyone to see these guys."

"What are they doing here?"

"On Earth?"

"No, the Hoover Dam…"

"Oh. In-processing mostly. You see, they use the dam as a central point for acclimation. It's protected and secluded from prying eyes and yet, so far out in the open that no one ever suspects it." the SecDef explained. "They'll move elsewhere later on."

Rosenbaum simply nodded and occasionally shook his head. "Wow. So our pilot and drivers…"

"Yes, sir. All holograms generated by the mechs. Your motorcade vehicle to the lift pad was one by the name of Richochet, one of their infiltration specialists. The chopper is Evac, predominantly search and rescue."

Rosenbaum looked at him, puzzled. "You make them out to be an army…"

"They are, sir." Keller said, giving a curt nod to the pair of mechs that made their way over. "Sir, this is Jazz, their First Lieutenant, and Ironhide, the weapons specialist."

"You're telling me that we've had an entire -army- of robot aliens hiding in our own country for…for…how long, now?" he asked, exasperated and ignoring the newest introductions.

"Sir, please. Everything will be explained when you meet with Prime." Keller said, motioning beyond the President and waving someone over. "President Rosenbaum, this is Reggie Simmons, current departmental liaison to Project Refuge." John Keller said, giving the wave towards the seemingly ever-smug man.

"Welcome, sir. First off, I'd like to say that it's an honor and a pleasure to make your acquaintance and that if you need-"

"Simmons?" Rosenbaum interrupted, holding his hand up in a gesture of silence.

"Yes, sir?"

"-What- is going on here?" he asked, exasperated and flinching as one of the mech's steps caused the surface to vibrate slightly. Keller sighed, waiting for 'the other shoe to drop', so to speak.

"Okay, you want the long version or the short one?" Simmons asked, gesturing to the various sizes of mechs and the few seemingly acclimated humans.

"Uh…short is probably good…"

"Okay. Big cube, kinda looked like a dice, made little guys, made big guys too, and can bring said guys back from the dead. Big guy followed it, hit the north pole, flattened a few reindeer,"

"Haven't seen Santa since…" Jazz quipped, earning himself a smack on the head from Ironhide.

"-and took a ten thousand year popsicle nap. That one" Simmons continued, undeterred as he pointed at Bumblebee, "made the big cube a small cube, big guy thaws out, all hell broke loose, shit hit the fan and stuff went boom. Big fight, little extortionist kid with the crazy Camaro kills the big guy, we dump a few bodies and voila, current situation."

Rosenbaum stared at the man for several long moments before blinking upwards at the now crouched mechs and then his escort John Keller before doing the only sensible thing any human could do. He spun around on his stool, ordered a double scotch on the rocks (which the bartender, a seemingly unfrosted man, had already prepared and set before him), downed it, and promptly let his forehead thump across the bar.


	5. Pillow Talk JazzBee

-1Pillow Talk

Bumblebee had no sooner walked into his quarters before he was met with a quiet "poof" and a slowly falling wall of feathers. Curiously, he looked into the room to find a rather dazed looking Solstice.

"Jazz?"

"Bee!" Jazz said, startled, and quickly hid the remains of whatever had contained the feathers behind his back.

"What happened?"

"Nothin'!" the other mech said, quickly.

Too quickly.

Bumblebee looked around his quarters, noticing nothing out of place, sans the still lingering feathers. That and the now missing pillow he'd recently acquired from a local store. Jazz sighed and guiltily held out the now demolished remains of the pillow.

"I'm sorry, Bee…I didn't mean to- I…that is, um…"

The yellow mech looked on as Jazz continued to ramble, reaching to take the bits of tattered fabric from him.

"I haven't seen you in a few days and it had your signature on it and I just wanted to…*sigh*…I really am sorry, Bee."

Bumblebee looked at the fabric, then the mech and back to the fabric. Jazz twitched, nervously looking at his companion as if awaiting judgment. Though he had contemplated teasing the mech further, Bumblebee dropped the scraps, wrapping his arms around Jazz's neck.

"Missed you too." Bumblebee said, chuckling at the relief on Jazz's features. "You didn't have to destroy my pillow though…"

"How was I supposed to know it would spontaneously implode?" Jazz said, pouting.

"Okay then, Wheeljack-"

"Oi!"

"You get to be the one to explain to Ratchet just -how- you managed to get feathers stuck in your transformation cogs."

Jazz gave the Camaro a pouting glare which was quickly countered by an all too amused expression. Silver shoulders drooped in defeat.

"He's going to blow a gasket…"

"Hopefully not one of yours." Bumblebee countered, gently pulling a tiny white feather from the area around Jazz's communication receiver horns. "C'mon, lets get you cleaned up a bit before we see the old doc."

Jazz willingly followed the larger mech out of the room, attempting to shake off feathers in the process.

"Oh, and Jazz…" Bumblebee called, over his shoulder.

"Yeah?" Jazz replied, stopping his shakes.

"You get to be my pillow later."

The Solstice stood dazed for a few moments before hurrying and following the other mech out, suddenly very happy he'd had such an accident.


	6. Down Range

Down Range

"I think that I should be jealous."

"Of?"

"The drone."

Ratchet looked down range at the now smoldering wreckage of the stationary training drone as the molten remains sizzled and popped.

"It does explode rather well." he said, giving it an appraising look as if contemplating it becoming a possible Companion.

Ironhide grumbled and called for the cleaning drone to remove the target and arrange the next set.

"What's the matter, Ironhide? Worried I'll leave you for a replica?"

"Just didn't realize you could shoot like that, s'all." Ironhide added, not falling for the medic's bait and shifting uncomfortably at the thought.

"I can knock out a Lamborghini at forty paces…why would you think I –couldn't- shoot?" smirking despite the apparent discomfort of his partner.

"Hm…Point." the black mech conceded.

"Besides," Ratchet said, reloading the weapon and charging it, "You don't think I've lived with -you- for this long and haven't learned a thing or eight about how to fire a weapon, do you?"

"Heh. Well, when you side with the best…"

"Forty paces, Ironhide."

Ironhide gave a quiet snort and initiated the next phase of the range simulations. Moving targets.

"Fifty paces." Ratchet corrected.

"Mute it and shoot, you old rust bucket." his Companion replied, chuckling.

"I thought you said this would be challenging, 'Hide." Ratchet groused after having shot two of the targets already.

"Oh, it is. It requires absolute concentration."

"Concentration? Ironhide, I could concentrate more on my morning energon than this."

Ratchet's quick yet carefully aimed shot flew wild when Ironhide's hand stroked his aft lightly before smacking it.

"See? Concentration."

"…You cheated." the medic groused, swiping a hand at the now retreating black mech.

"All's fair, Ratch." Ironhide said, voice smug as he stayed far enough out of the medic's grasp in case the other mech attempted further retaliation.

"So you groping me while I have a -loaded weapon- in my hands is your idea of me practicing my 'concentration'?"

"If you don't like that weapon, I know another loaded weapon that would be happy to be in your hands…"

"…you mean you?" Ratchet inquired, eyeing the other mech over his shoulder.

Ironhide gave the Cybertronian equivalent of an eyebrow waggle with a sidelong smirk.

Ratchet found the idea hilarious, his laughter echoing off the range targets.

"'Loaded weapon'…more like over-clocked oil pellet gun."

Ironhide was no longer amused.

"Just…shut up and shoot…"


	7. Silence

Silence

It was a time of excess and lavish overindulgence. It was a time of the Towers…a breed of mech all alone in the lofty, dizzying heights of the Crystal City. Borne of Iacon and yet above it, the Towers mechs believed themselves to be the epitome of society, the properly bred and built, the privileged. They believed that Primus himself had anointed them the keeper of his people. There, in their Towers high above all other Iaconians, closest to the heavens to which many gods resided, closer still to their own guiding power, is where these mechs remained when the ground below them erupted into chaos. It is also where they fell.

There had been no evacuation, no sense of urgency. Just a calm acceptance. Oh, there had been terror but one so short lived it could be debated that it existed at all. Reliance on Primus, assurance that nothing could defile these majestic structures, false pride and hope all merged together to create the false sense of –right- just before the projectile impacted the substructure and brought it down. The crystals cracked and groaned, the mechs still remaining inside imagining that the Towers were singing as wind passed through the sculpted halls. Each explosion rendering a bass hit in the symphony and was not, in fact, signaling the collapse of another support column. Running peds and shrill screams were simply a backdrop for the wind-borne orchestra, playing the songs of those who willed it into being. The shudders that racked the floors and walls, shaking pictures and statues to the point of falling and releasing debris from the ceilings was not the build up to the symphonic crescendo but the death throes of a civilization brought down by its own kind.

The scene could be called picturesque. The crystals, once so stable and strong, now prey to the gravity that pulled at them since their conception. Like rain they fell, glistening with the fire light as they plummeted…the flames of the destruction below gladly welcoming them into their midst. A cloud of crystalline dust billowed as the great chunks of the Towers met the solid surface of the Cybertronian landscape and settled, the final remnants of the high society erased from the skyline. There could be no encore, no final bow. There was nothing left of the bright, shining heirs to Primus, keeper of his people, elite among elites. Even as mechs stumbled and tripped, pulling themselves and others from the from the rubble that remained, they were cut down by those whom they had overlooked for eons. Eventually, every shrill and screaming voice was silenced followed shortly after by a victory howl that celebrated the chaos wrought in this place.

Even in the distance, across Iacon's crumbling façade, the shouts and screams of those dying and deranged echoed across the now mostly barren landscape. As the attackers (avengers, in their own minds) left, departing minus the fierce swiftness in which they had arrived, current mission accomplished. They left behind a field of debris where a once great city had once stood. The bodies had been piled haphazardly high, each mangled and decrepit, as the ones who had invaded searched the rubble for anything value for surely, those who had kept themselves nearest the stars had treasures untold awaiting to be found again. The flames licked at bodies, drawing ever closer. The light danced, oblivious that its song was tapering off into the night. The multifaceted jewels, once so high and mighty, now nothing more than dust and ash, sang with the fire's heat a song of sorrow. But the song was short-lived as the flames warped the instruments leaving the only the hollow echoes and ghostly whispers left to remind anyone who passed the depth of their demise.


End file.
